


010. Years

by BadWolfonBakerStreet



Series: BadWolfonBakerStreet's fanfic100 challenge [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reunion Fic, rated T for some swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadWolfonBakerStreet/pseuds/BadWolfonBakerStreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Either John was going insane or he had a visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	010. Years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blanketsarecool](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=blanketsarecool).



> For [blanketsarecool from tumblr](http://blanketsarecool.tumblr.com) who said she needs a reunion fic right now.
> 
> Written very quickly and un-betad, so please do forgive any mistakes and weird things you might find.

Slowly but steady John made his way up the stairs to 221b. With a sigh he dropped the shopping bags on the empty kitchen table. If it wasn't for that damned leg he could carry more bags and didn't have to leave the house so often. He put the kettle on and while he waited for the water to boil he looked around with tired eyes.  
Three years and the place still looked empty. Sherlock's stuff was all in boxes, in his old bedroom and over the years John's things had begun to fill the shelves in the living room. It was also a lot tidier than it had ever been when Sherlock lived there. The fridge was filled with food and food only, there was actually space on the table to eat there and without the danger of accidentally poisoning himself with some leftover experiment. 

There was always far too much milk. Somehow that was the question that wouldn't let John go. What had the lunatic actually been doing with the milk? John had never asked him and now he'd never get an answer. It was ridiculous, he knew that. Three years and what he really wanted to know was what happened to all the milk.  
He slightly shook his head when the kettle boiled and while the tea steeped he put the shopping away. The rest of the day passed in a foggy way, nothing happening and still the time went by too fast. He woke up on the couch around 2 am when some cars exploded in an action film. John decided to leave the rest of his microwave dinner on the coffee table, he was far too tired to tidy it up now.

John awoke around 3 the next afternoon and for a moment completely panicked before he realized it was Sunday and he didn't have to be at the clinic today. But Greg wanted to come over for tea later, the usual monthly making-sure-my-friend-hasn't-killed-himself-yet-visit. John allowed himself the luxury of a long hot bath and then started tidying up.  
“Strange.”, he quietly murmured to himself. He could have sworn there was some leftover lasagna from last night that he hadn't bothered putting away. But it wasn't on the coffee table. He must have finished it then and his tired brain must have forgotten about it. Further investigation proved that the paper dish was in the bin and no leftovers to be found in the fridge. John sighed. “I'm getting old.”

“But I just started a milk yesterday.”, John murmured after scanning the fridge's contents for a second time and finally took a new bottle out.  
“You alright, mate? You look a bit spooked.”  
John handed Greg a cup.  
“Either I really am getting old or that's it and I am finally going insane.” Greg gave him a puzzled look. “Never mind.” They sat down at the kitchen table and drank their tea in silence for a while. “So, anything interesting happening at the Yard?” Greg groaned, running both hands through his hair.  
“That's a way of putting it, yeah. A murder and we've got absolutely nothing. Except for a corpse with three bullet holes. She had nothing on her, her clothes told us nothing, we still haven't identified her. The surroundings were completely cleaned. Looks professional, the kind we usually don't have to deal with for long before the suits show up. I could really need Sher...” He stopped himself.  
“It's alright. I – I think about him all the time anyway.” They both fell silent for a moment again.  
“Can I ask you something? About him, I mean.” John nodded. “How do you stand it, staying here? Why did you move back in?”  
“It probably sounds insane, but I can't stand to be anywhere else. Here I'm always reminded of him but it's still home.”  
Greg nodded and quietly sipped his tea.  
“That's definitely insane, mate.”, he said and grinned. John grinned back and thanked whoever it was who was responsible for that he still had Greg.

The next morning John found a half drank cup of cocoa on the kitchen table. Right, that was it. He hadn't had a cocoa in years and he was fairly certain there was none in the flat. There was no way how he could have left that on the table and forgot about it. It was impossible.

Unless he had developed a personality disorder. No. No, that wasn't a direction he would let his thoughts take. He might have become a bit strange but he was not insane and he definitely didn't drink cocoa.

Which means someone else had been in the flat at night.

That night John was very careful to go through his usual routine of microwave dinner and telly before going upstairs and after the amount of time it would take him to get ready for bed he switched off the lights and with his gun tugged in his jeans made his way back downstairs silently. He had been sitting behind Sherlock's old chair in the living room for hours and had been on the brink of falling asleep there several times when he heard the door open. Someone stepped into the kitchen almost silently. John could hear the fridge being opened and then a liquid was poured. A quick look over the back of the chair proved that the intruder had his back to him, all John could make out was a grey hoodie and short dark hair. Quietly he left his hiding place, sneaking up behind the man in the kitchen and when he was close enough simply pistol whipped him. The stranger slumped down and John's favorite mug hit the floor, spilling milk everywhere.

John didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on the features of the intruder who was not a stranger after all. He might have become a bit weird but he would recognize this face anywhere.

The first time Sherlock Holmes woke up in 221b Baker Street after three years he found himself tied to a kitchen chair in the middle of the living room with his best friend pointing a gun at his head.

“Oh, look who's with me again. Looking good for a dead person.”, John growled. It might have been true that Sherlock was looking astonishingly well for someone who theoretically has been dead for three years but that was the only standard by which he was looking good. He had always been thin but now was nothing but bones. His jeans and hoodie hung from his thin frame, they were dirty and consisted of more holes than solid fabric. And then there was his face. Grey and with dark shadows under the eyes, the lips cracked and his eyes missed the cutting intelligence that had always been there. John didn't believe for one moment that he didn't still have it. He just didn't care anymore. But as soon as Sherlock's eyes focused on John's face his expression lit up with warmth and relief.

“John.”, he croaked. It was too much, hearing that voice, broken and little and like he just found the only thing in the world that could fix him again.

“Three years, Sherlock. You were gone for years. And let me believe you were dead.” There was no reply, just a look of guilt in the eyes fixed on his face. “Say something!”, he yelled, not being able to deal with a silent Sherlock. “Years. You left me alone for years. I thought I'd never see you again, I thought I had given you reason to doubt yourself, I – I almost killed myself because I didn't know what to do without you.” His voice broke and he closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tears. “After all you had given me you took it away again and it was worse than before we met.” He tried to get the anger back. “And then you show up and make fucking cocoa! What the hell is wrong with you?” That's all he got out before long arms pulled him into an embrace, pressing his face into the smelly sweatshirt. Of course the bastard had untied himself. Of course he had. 

He pushed away a little so he could see Sherlock's face, which was immediately painted by worry which disappeared as soon as a hand pushed down his neck and crashed his lips on John.  
“Three years, you fucking asshole.” John murmured against his lips when they broke apart. And then punched him in the arm. Hard. Sherlock winced.  
“I deserved that.”  
John snorted. “Oh no, mister, that wasn't even the beginning of what you deserve. And don't think for one second that you're going to get away with it that easy.” Sherlock nodded sheepishly.  
“But not now.”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's bony shoulders, pulling him into another kiss, that was not desperation but determination to never let go again.


End file.
